At the Front Line
by Two-on-a-Tower
Summary: December, 19-. He had never talked about the war, but when his body was suffering from a fever, the deeply hidden pictures of fear and despair emerged.
1. Chapter 1

He felt tired. Not the usual tiredness he experienced after a long day of work. It was a tiredness which was settling in his bones while making his thoughts slow. And he felt hot. Why was it so hot? He didn't know, but he knew that he was too tired to open his eyes. Instead he tried to move his body to a cooler place, but moving tired him out even more so he stopped.

'How is he?' a voice whispered suddenly. He was frightened for a moment, but the voice sounded concerned and warm; almost motherly. It calmed him and he relaxed again. Was that his mother's voice? He tried to picture her, but no memory could answer his question.

'Better,' another voice said. This voice, however, was deep and muffled. It sounded like a thought surrounded by water. 'His fever is still high, but his breathing is much better. We should continue the current treatment and see how he'll be tomorrow.'

'So, all we can do is sit and wait?' the former warm voice changed to a cooler chime. Could he hear despair? No, despair was cold, gelid. How did he know? Despair was not his comrade.

'Yes,' the other voice sighed. 'We have to wait, but you can help him. Sit with him and talk to him. Give him something to drink, try some soup, and help him to keep his fever down. Just … just don't give up on him. He's very ill, but he can recover.' _Ill?,_ he wondered. Did one of the voices make him ill? Maybe. He felt frightened again.

'I would never give him up!" The voice was shrill now. It hurt his ears, and he stifled a soft groan.

'Thomas?' Another groan. He was tired, and yet curious. He wanted to see the face which belonged to the warm voice. He tried to open his eyes again, but his efforts were hidden behind a cool washcloth. He closed his eyes in his thoughts and relaxed. He was safe. He knew, and his body was suddenly floating; only hold by the cold cloth. It was his anchor to reality.

'Ssh now,' the voice said. 'Rest. It's really late.' In his thoughts he nodded, she was right. He knew, but he didn't know what she meant by late since he had lost track of time long ago. He weighed the anchor.

The next time he woke up, he was confused. His body wasn't floating anymore. It was cold, his fingers numb, and his feet restless. He wanted to move and warm himself up, but he couldn't. He was tired. He could just lie there while the only thing he heard was his heart beating in an unsettling rhythm. It was loud. Where was the voice? Where was the warmth feeling of home? Home? Was he at home? He tried to think, to remember, but his thoughts were still slow. Another heartbeat. What happened? His heart was racing by now. Why didn't he have any control? His mind was locked up in his body. He wanted to see where he was, but his eyes remained closed. Instead he tried to feel his surroundings. His fingertips, albeit cold, could feel something soft underneath them _. He is very ill._ He knew this voice. He knew. Wherefrom? His thoughts were heavy and he could feel how consciousness faded away, but he didn't want to sleep again. He wanted to feel, to explore, and above all he wanted to understand. He focused on his fingers again. Cold, but soft, somehow uneven. It was … he was … A sudden movement dissolved his thoughts. A door had opened. He heard steps approaching. It frightened him. _Please, say something. Anything. I want to know who you are._

'How was the rest of the night?' He knew this voice, and somehow it agitated him.

'Good, I'd say. He slept calmly.' It was the warm voice. He was not alone. 'He's getting better, isn't he?'

'Mmh,' a rough hand settled on his forehead. He didn't like this feeling. He felt trapped. 'His fever seems to be the same. Maybe he was only calm due to the medicine I gave him. I'd just like to check his breathing again before I go.' He searched in his thoughts. A name. Every voice has a name. He felt hot again. Thinking was exhausting, but he needed a name. _Major,_ his brain told him, but what did it mean - 'Major'? It meant danger. Pain. Fear. Not his mind, but his body provided the answer. He was confused, but the fast beating of his heart and the feeling in his chest couldn't betray him. He was in danger. Suddenly, he felt something cold against his chest and this time, he knew exactly how it was called and what it did. A gun meant death. He screamed in realisation.

'Ssh, Thomas, shh.' He heard the warm voice again, and for the first time he had the strength to open his eyes. At first, he could only see a shadow, but bit by bit he could see details; brown eyes and hair which were scarred by fear. No, by uncertainty.

'Do you want something to drink?' He nodded, and a glass of cool water was brought to his lips. It was a relief, but he still felt dried-out. His heart felt dried-out.

'Do you want more?' she asked. He shook his head and looked around. A man lingered in the door.

'I just wanted to listen to your lungs,' he said. 'I didn't want to scare you. You were afraid, weren't you, Thomas?" He nodded slowly and dizziness settled in. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Danger. He had to warn the woman by his side. His heartbeat and the feeling of dizziness increased. He shut his eyes, but he wanted to say something. He must say something.

'Major,' he whispered with the last of his strength, before he fell asleep again.

He was on a train. It was dark. Night. The clattering of the train was accompanied by snippets of conversations. _Bombardment, gas, tanks, machine-guns, hand-grenades_. He was surrounded by words which let him shiver.

'You're cold?' A question, a smile. Raymond wrapped in drab.

'No, I'm not. I was just lost in thoughts,' he could hear himself answering. Raymond laughed. He always laughed – expect while sleeping then he cried. He didn't sleep often anymore.

'Did you think of home?'

'No,' he shook his head and stubbed out his cigarette. Nobody thought of home, because nobody knew what home meant. Barracks were their home now. Raymond was his brother.

'Do have another cigarette?' Thomas went for his breast pocket. He could feel the cigarette box. Five cigarettes left. They should last for the night.

'You shouldn't smoke so much,' he said slowly while looking Raymond straight in his blue eyes. 18 years old. Student. Only child.

'Oh, come on. I'm a soldier. I have to smoke. It's my only pleasure left.' Thomas hesitated, but gave in. 18 years old. Soldier. Dead within three days.

He had met Raymond at a CSS while working in one of the resuscitation tents. He had been working there for a month seeing death and life sitting side by side. It'd been his task to prepare the wounded soldiers for life-saving operations. Apparently dying cases had been warmed up in heated beds, or transfused before operation. At his first day, he had been amazed how effective transfusions were. Men like corpses, blanched and collapsed, pulseless and with just perceptible breathing could sit up in bed and smoke within two hours, before they would be sent to the operation tent.

Raymond hat visited his brother Johnny, who was blinded by the effect of mustard gas, and shot in his leg just above the knee. Thomas had seen the leg which was destroyed by the impact of a bullet. He could never walk or see again. He had known it, and so had Raymond and Johnny.

'You will see, Johnny. After the operation you'll be able to walk again. We have good doctors here,' Raymond said reassuringly, but Johnny had shaken his head.

'No, an operation wouldn't help me anymore,' he said. And he was right. In the evening his fever had been so high that the operation had been cancelled, and within two hours he'd been dead. And Raymond? Raymond had found a friend in the young medic, who offered him a sympathetic ear and a cigarette that night. A friendship had been born in solitude.

The train stopped. They'd changed their location nearer to the front; filling in for the men who had been killed the days before.

'Looks like a quiet night,' Raymond said while leaving the train. He stretched his legs and arms, filling his lungs with cold air.

'Mmh,' Thomas said, 'Maybe for you, but I must go to my new tend. See where I can be of help.'

'It's hard to be a medic, huh?' Raymond asked. 'I mean, I don't kill people - just nameless enemies. But you, you have to deal with the people who were injured out there.'

'No, not really,' Thomas shook his head, 'I deal with numbers.' He lit a cigarette for himself and one for Raymond. 'Number one: blinded by gas. – Clean and apply bandages. Number two: fragment of an explosive bullet in left leg. – Need to be extracted by surgery, maybe amputation. Number three: loss of left leg. – Stop bleeding, prepare for operation. Number four: Broken hip due to explosion. – One of the few who gets morphine for the pain. However, he won't be able to walk again. Number five: not bodily injured, but mentally – Doctors won't give him attention. Malingering, they say. War, I say.'

Thomas awoke with a start. His heart was pounding heavily in his chest, his fingers were sweaty. He looked around and found a woman asleep in a chair on the left side of his bed. _She looks tired,_ he thought. _She shouldn't be here. She should be in her bed. Why is she here?_ For a moment, he considered waking her, but he hadn't the strength to do so. Instead he turned to his left side, where a small, wooden night table stood. He opened to drawer and was surprised how weak he really was. His fingers were trembling strongly as he reached for the little leather-bound book. _The 39 Steps,_ it said on the cover, but on the first page in a neat handwriting was written: Property of Raymond Malham. _His dreams were reality_ , he thought. _Maybe his reality was a dream of someone else._


	2. Interlude

'How is it that you never write a letter?' Raymond asked while writing one himself.

'Don't know what to write,' said Thomas. They were sitting on the ground, backs against the barrack. It was a sunny and rather warm day for this time of the year.

'But doesn't your family worry?'

'Nah, don't think so.' He flicked his cigarette end to the ground. 'They don't know that I am here.' His hands grabbed for the cigarette box again, but his eyes caught Raymond before he could open his mouth. 'Just don't ask.' And Raymond didn't. Instead he gave him a blank sheet of paper.

'I don't ask you anything about your private matters, but you write. Deal?' Thomas looked astonished.

'What? No!'

'Come on, Thomas. Write. It makes your heart lighter,' Raymond smiled broadly now. 'And I bet that you have a sweetheart out there. Look at you with your grey eyes and your pitch black hair.' Thomas could feel how his cheeks reddened, but at the same time he couldn't suppress a smile.

'Oh, just shut up and give me a pen, you daft beggar.'

Thomas could still hear the echoes of their laughter in his bedroom. With Raymond's book in his lap and his voice in his ears, Thomas couldn't believe that Raymond was dead and that he was not. He was lost in thoughts again, as a voice suddenly disrupted the quiet:

'Thomas, it's good to see you awake.'

'It's good to see _you_ awake, Mrs Hughes,' he said while trying to shift into a more comfortable position.

'Sh, take it easy now,' she said and placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was only brief, but he could feel the same warmth as in his dreams. It was, however, followed by a silence that made him uncomfortable.

'How are you feeling?' she finally asked.

'Good, I think. Just a bit too hot, and you are a bit to fuzzy, Mrs Hughes.' He smiled but she didn't.

'You've been very ill, Thomas. '

'That's why you're here?' He chose to look at his fingertips which were still touching Raymond's book.

'That's why I'm here,' she shifted her position and continued, 'You passed out in the servants' hall three days ago, and have been unconscious ever since. I'm surprised, but more than glad that you are finally awake.'

He didn't know what to say. On the one hand he felt ashamed for passing out, and on the other hand, he didn't believe her. It was only one of those things that were said to sick people. Nothing more. He was sure because kindness toward him was rare.

'Thomas, are you listening? Why didn't you tell us, you were feeling so poorly?' At this his ears pricked up.

'I don't know,' he finally admitted, 'It's just that I've been feeling poorly for a very long time now.'

'What do you mean?'

'You know that I've been to the war, Mrs Hughes?' he said. His hoarse voice broke at the end of the sentence. Her head jerked up as she was slightly taken aback by this turn of events. The war was over and Thomas had been back for two years. Why bother now?

'Of course, I know, _Corporal Barrow_ ,' she said teasingly.

'I think that was when it's started, ' he whispered. And for the first time he hadn't any strength left to hold up his mask of indifference. He didn't know if it was because of his fever or because of all the memories of Raymond, but as he looked her into the eyes he could see that she somehow understood the graveness of this situation.

'You'd like to talk about it?' She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

'No, no. I'm fine, Mrs Hughes,' he said, 'I just want to sleep now, I think. I'm feeling rather tired out.'

'It's alright. Sleep well, Thomas. I'll see you in the morning.' She grabbed to door handle, but before she could leave, she heard his voice again.

'And Mrs Hughes, could you please forget what I've said. It was… it's just not important anymore. I don't even know why I've started this. So, please forget it.' She smiled sadly.

'Of course, Thomas. Good night!' And with that she left, but in the remaining night she wouldn't be able to sleep. Instead her thoughts would revolve around the war and around Thomas: Thomas, the boy who started as a hall boy years ago and who was now the first footman. Thomas, who left Downton Abbey and came back as Corporal Barrow. She even remembered Thomas the thief and Thomas the liar, but she also realised that she didn't know anything about Thomas himself.


	3. Chapter 3

On the following morning, Thomas was woken by porcelain clattering against cutlery. It was Mrs Hughes, who brought him a tray with breakfast and opened the window, letting in not only fresh air but also the sun. Contrary to his nocturnal memories, the day was warm and quiet.

'Good morning, Thomas,' Mrs Hughes said softly, putting the tray on his nightstand.

'Morning,' he mumbled. At first he could scarcely keep his eyes open, but the moment he saw what Mrs Hughes had brought him his eyes went wide with surprise: fresh bread, some slices of cheese, an apple – peeled and chopped, a cup of tea – chamomile according to the smell, and even a glass of orange juice. You never get orange juice downstairs. It was only for the Grantham's, especially for Lady Grantham.

'But Mrs Hughes,' he started while trying to sit upright. 'That's far too …'

'Eat what you can, Thomas – but vitamins first if possible.' She was smiling, he was smiling. Odd, he thought, and so he was even glad when she left and he could eat this delicious breakfast all by himself.

'Beef and beans, every day beef and beans,' Raymond complained half-heartedly while having his second helping. They were sitting under a tree, apart from the others. Thomas had already moved to his dessert: Kenilworth Cigarettes. They were stronger than his usual brand but still enjoyable. This day they had got twice as many cigarettes as usually since half of their company was dead and hence lying out in the weathers between Trônes Wood and Guillemont. Thomas could feel the second pack lying pleasantly in his breast pocket.

' So,' Raymond started, his mouth still full of beans, 'Today you're coming with me to the front, huh?' Thomas could feel how his stomach clenched. In the morning they had received "orders from above": every man available must go to the front tonight. They had lost half their company last night, if they wouldn't push through this night, they had two wait at least three days for the next group of soldiers to close the lines. Waiting and hiding – that's what a Fritz would do, but not an English soldier.

'Yeah, someone has to patch you up, right?' he said, smoking his second cigarette by now. 'It'll be fun to doctor your ass right in front of the Germans.'

'Who says that you have to patch me up? I'm a good soldier, just a few bruises and a dead brother so far. Only Aaron has collected more trophies than I.' Raymond smiled proudly, 'And tonight I'll finally have… " But his sentence was interrupted by a raspy voice.

'Barrow!" The voice belonged to Martle, who was now limping toward them. The sun behind him was already low in the blue sky.

'It's good to see ya,' he said smiling, 'I still 'ave troubles with my 'eel. It's bleeding in my fucking boot,' he sat down, facing only Thomas, ''ow shall I survive the fucking two miles to Sand-pits?' Thomas knew what he meant. In an hour they'd be moving back to another camp, preparing for the fight. With the extra 61 lbs of their backpacks, a journey with an injured foot could be worse than a confrontation with a Fritz at night.

'Let me see it,' Thomas said and stubbed out his cigarette. Even though he was taking his lunch break, he couldn't reject a fellow soldier. Martle smiled gracefully and took his boot off. Thomas could immediately see that he sock was hard with dried blood while the wound itself looked dirty.

'I need hot water to clean it,' Thomas said to nobody particular and was glad as Raymond immediately offered to get some. In the meantime, he was rummaging his backpack, looking for strips of clean linen.

'You heard something about little Jim?', Martle asked, glancing at his foot. Thomas looked him briefly into the eyes, and shook his head.

'Nothing knew,' he said with the picture of Jim's bleeding body and twisted limps flashing upon his eyes. Last night, on their way to the station, an enemy plane had swooped out of the blue and dropped two bombs, which exploding on the hard macadam had sent gravel and road metal flying in all directions. He was one of the first to arrive at the scene, but all he could remember was blood and bones, and Jim's pleading: 'Please, shoot me, Barrow, please.' – but he couldn't. Jim was only 17-years-old. In the end, he had betrayed Jim's trust. He had refused his last request and now Jim was lying feverishly and unconsciously in one of the medic tents with no hope to get any better.

'You know, we share a tent, and all his stuff is still there. Fuck,' he screamed and plucked out some grass, 'I don't know what to do with it tonight. I can't take it with me. It's too 'eavy. Can't 'ardly carry my own bloody stuff.' Thomas could feel the tension radiating from Martle. He knew that he and Jim were friends, even before the war. The came from the same town or village or something. He sighed, usually everybody kept their feelings very much for themselves but sometimes façades cracked and anger and fear came to the surface.

'Send it back,' said Thomas after a while.

'I can't. His family will think, he's dead.' Thomas felt a headache crawling from his neck into his head settling just behind his forehead.

'Martle,' he said, 'Jim is dead. Just … be a good friend and send it back, okay?' After that, Martle remained silent and Thomas was relieved when he spotted Raymond with a bucket. He cleaned the wound carefully, applied a strip of clean linen soaked with Brandy, before Thomas wrapped another strip of linen around the heel.

'The swelling should subside within an hour. Try to keep your feet elevated until we have to move,' Thomas stood up and dusted bits of dead grass from his trousers. His eyes fixed on Martle who was putting on his shoe.

'Thanks, Barrow,' he said, handing over two cigarettes. 'I'll think about it.'

'I hope you'll do,' he mumbled.

'What did you say, Thomas?' Suddenly he was wide awake.

'Mrs Hughes, what the fuck are you doing here?' he said. The taste of the cigarettes was still in his mouth. "I mean, can't I be alone for a second?' He was foaming with rage, before he realised where he was and who looked at him wide-eyed and with a pale face. His rage was gone just as quickly as it came.

'I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes,' he said. He felt confused and vulnerable, trapped between reality and dream. As he felt her hand on his forehead, he leant into her touch, just for a second, to ensure that this was the reality, not the dream.

'You still have a fever,' she said noticing beads of sweat pouring off his forehead, 'but not as high as last night. Shall I send for Dr Clarkson. Do you feel worse?'

'No … no,' he said. After each word he had to swallow. The taste of the cigarettes made him nauseous and before he could realise what was happening, he bend over the bed and vomited. It wasn't much, but he still felt embarrassed as he looked at the puddle of bread and apple.

'I'm sorry,' he said more to the ceiling than to Mrs Hughes. 'I don't know what happened.' He hid his eyes under his arm unwilling to see anyone at this moment, listening to the rapid beating of his heart. For a while he heard nothing else, but then he heard Mrs Hughes scrubbing. Immediately his cheeks became hot with the flush of shame.

'It's alright, Thomas,' she said after finishing her task. 'How are you feeling?'

'Confused,' he said truthfully, and as he looked her into the eyes, all brown and sympathetic, he felt the need to elaborate. 'One minute I'm here, the next I'm back … back in the trenches. As soon as I fall asleep, various memories haunt me, and I see people who died long ago." He paused unsure of what to say next. 'I've never talked about the war because I always thought that I don't know enough words to describe this gruesome period. I've tried to forget everything as soon as I was allowed to leave, but as I came back, Downton Abbey wasn't the same anymore. Downton was a hospital – the war has even altered my home. I wasn't prepared for this. And even now, after all this time, I have the feeling that all the lost souls are still here.' He felt stupid as soon as he finished his last sentence. _I shouldn't have said that_ , he thought. _Downton is my home. How pathetic am I?_ He looked down at his hands, especially his left, mutilated, ugly hand which he always hid under a glove, and felt his anger rising again. Now hot and sweaty, he was afraid that Mrs Hughes could smell his sweat caused by anger and fever. At this moment, he'd love to wash himself, to sit in a tube of hot water, to relax, but he knew that he was too weak. His legs couldn't hold his weight, and his sore eyes would close on their own accord. He sighed, and look toward Mrs Hughes who was sitting on the chair besides his bed. He licked his lips and was surprised at how chapped they were.

'Have you got some time?' he asked quietly. He saw that it was already getting dark again, but he didn't know what time it was.

'You're lucky; I have,' she said smiling, 'But let me first get some tea, and at the same time I can talk to Mr Carson.' Thomas frowned. 'What are you going to say to him?'

'That I need some time with our first footman to discuss certain things,' she said vaguely. 'And I need to find Anna. She should supervise the other housemaids today. I haven't got any time to do it.'

She left the room, and Thomas was determined not to fall asleep again. It was time to leave the past behind.


	4. Chapter 4

When Thomas opened his eyes, he saw Mrs Hughes reading a book. She was again sitting on a chair besides his bed, and for a second he wondered when he had fallen asleep, but then his eyes focused on the book in her lap: his book. Raymond's book, and without knowing why, he got angry.

'What are you doing?' he asked in a husky voice.

'Nothing in particular,' she said, and after a pause she added, 'Did you read this book?' Thomas was taken aback by this question. He'd never considered reading this book. It simply wasn't for reading, it was for memories.

'No,' he said and shook his head, 'No, but I like it. It reminds me of someone.' Mrs Hughes raised her eyebrows.

'Of someone,' she echoed and Thomas could feel his cheeks getting red.

'No, no, not in this way,' his eyes focused on his hands which were fumbling with the blanket. 'He was special, but not that special – maybe a little bit, but above all he was a friend, Mrs Hughes. A true friend.' Since his eyes were still focused on his hands, he couldn't see her nodding in agreement.

'A true friend is a valuable gift, Thomas - not only at difficult times, but at all times.' He nodded because he knew exactly what she meant. Making friends was never easy, but for him making friends was nearly impossible because he could never be like he really was. Right from the start he had to pretend to be someone else, and when he had been himself, most people had been disgust - except Jimmy. Jimmy had been one of his two true friends, but now Jimmy was gone, and so was Raymond.

"Does Raymond know about your _preferences_?'

'What? No!,' Thomas shook his head, although it made him dizzy, 'Moreover the question should be: Did Raymond know about … _it_?' Unconsciously he had started massaging his temples, wondering why she'd asked. 'But no, why should I tell him? Neither do I define myself solely by my … orientation nor have I to be attracted to someone to be nice to him.' He paused and tried to control his rapidly beating heart and the feeling of anger in his chest. 'We were friends because he was a very likeable person whose heart had enough room for others – even for me.'

Mrs Hughes own heart ached at his words, but she tried not to show this. If one wanted to have a serious conversation with Thomas Barrow, one shouldn't openly show sympathy because Thomas Barrow often mistook it for pity. Therefore she decided to keep her own emotions at bay.

'You should be glad that you've encountered such a special person,' she said, 'Only a few people have met such veritable person in their lives. I assume he is dead now?'

Thomas nodded while his head was immediately filled with pictures of terror and pain. He saw broken limps, broken men, lying on the ground, screaming and begging for relief, which was denied to them. He even smelt the mixture of moist soil and the metallic scent of blood. At this, his stomach cramped and his mouth filled up with salvia. He didn't want to vomit, not again, and so he remained silent and stiff, his eyes now closed, in order to control his body and his thoughts. After a couple of minutes, in which Mrs Hughes had silently observed him, he re-opened his eyes, surprised to feel small tears in them. With a brisk move of his hand, he wiped them away.

'You're alright?' Mrs Hughes said; her voice softer now, 'Do you need a bucket?'

'No,' he said while concentrating on his breathing in order to calm himself down, 'I'm fine. Thank you.' But still, he didn't look into her eyes.

'There's nothing to be ashamed of,' she said sensing his discomfort, 'Your body is out of control and that's no wonder after the fever it had to fight against.' Mrs Hughes used the moment of heavy silence to put the book back on the nightstand before she re-focused on Thomas. 'But it's not only the fever that troubles you, isn't it?'

'No, it's not,' he shook his head. He still felt uncomfortable speaking so openly with Mrs Hughes and he wondered whether his discomfort was caused by his fever or by himself. However, he knew that after the incident with Jimmy, Mrs Hughes was probably the only person at Downton Abbey who was – maybe not able but at least willing to try – to understand him. Eventually he had to make an effort and open up in order to change. It was about time. And so he tried to open up and to speak, even if his mouth was dry and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

"I'm … I'm,' he started realising that even if he wanted to tell her at least something of his memories, he couldn't because he was at a loss of words. How should he describe time, pain and dread? How dead, blood, and all the terrible images of broken men lying on dry earth with their terror-stricken eyes widely open and their mouth distorted by pain? How shall he put the smell of blood, sweat and faeces mixed with soil and rain into words? But maybe describing war wasn't about accuracy, about details and colours and smells. It was about sharing memories in order to remember all who had died and to forget all who had survived so as to continue one's former life without being torn between the reality of today and yesterday. And so Thomas decided to tell his story, not in detail, but as his own blurred memory affected by fear and frenzy, and he hoped that Mrs Hughes was ready for it. At this moment, he didn't dare to ask himself if he was ready because it was more than likely that his answer would be 'no'.

 _After my medical training, six months at the RAMC Depot in Aldershot, I was immediately sent to Rouen. Since we planned to go by train at 1:30 a. m., we had to hurry with the final packing of the wagons. My valise must have weighed quite a bit over the 35 pounds at this moment. I can't remember much else only that it was night and most of the men cherish, but my mood was clouded by hunger and the fear of the unknown since nobody really knew where we would stop. There were rumours about Southampton or Bristol. Since it was not my decision to make, I slept a bit, on and off, before we indeed stopped at Southampton. It soon became evident that this was only a transhipment point. We had to continue our journey on a ship, but first we had to load it. It was a dreary and slow business. After a day and a night on the boat, and again I can't remember much because I suffered from a terrible seasickness which was the reason I spent most of my time bent over the railing, we reached Rouen._

 _Rouen, maybe you know that already, Mrs Hughes, is a beautiful city on the River Seine with beautiful little houses paint in red and yellow, and wide green fields, full of violet lavender blooms or wonderful yellow sunflowers. The whole situation was just so paradox. I mean, we were standing at one of the most beautiful places, laughing and chatting, enjoying the food and the view while we were prepared to kill and to destroy._

 _After we unloaded the ship, it was night again, but our unit had to be collected and got on the move at once. And so we were walking through a pitch dark night, a mirror of our future._

'We marched four miles to the next train station leading us to Le Cateau,' Thomas said, 'And the further north we came, the louder we could hear the rumble of guns.' He bit his lower lip after he'd finished his sentence, before he added shyly 'Sometimes I can still hear them, especially at night.'


	5. Chapter 5

_We didn't spend much time in Le Cateau. Our next stop was St Quentin, and then Nayon, before we retreated to Compiègne after Le Cateau had fallen. We walked so much that my whole body constantly arched, my feet were sore and bloody, my stomach empty. In the end, it wasn't walking which bothered me the most; it was flies, dirt, heat, dust and bad food with no decent washing._

 _After a while I lost track of all the different places we had to go, because I knew that names didn't matter since every place was just another hell we entered. – But I couldn't say that, obviously. It was my duty to serve for our country, and I knew that I should have been as proud and happy as all the others, but I couldn't. I was … I was …_

-oo-

 _'_ Afraid?' Mrs Hughes asked sensitively since Thomas had remained silent for a long time, apparently lost in thoughts.

'Yeah, afraid.' It was difficult to admit it, but she was right, and yet it felt somehow wrong. 'I felt more like a coward,' he added, 'as I only worked in the evacuating zone at that time – I wasn't even at the front. To be honest, I had seen nothing of the fighting line yet except the wounded, and really not very many of these. Hence my work was simple. I just had to afford temporary treatment to all the wounded men from the collecting zone, before they could be passed on to the distribution zone. And yet I felt afraid.' He stopped himself from saying more as he saw her brown eyes fixed on him. He didn't want to admit that he was also afraid of the future, even though it was foolish to think about it at that moment, but he was timid about what would happen after the war, and where he could go because Downton wasn't his home anymore.

Thomas let his eyes wander from Mrs Hughes to his window and was surprised to discover that it already was dark outside. Unfortunately, he couldn't see the moon since it was hiding behind some heavy clouds.

'It's going to rain tonight,' Mrs Hughes said, bringing him back to reality. He nodded.

'You're right,' and then he resumed his story.

-00-

 _Shortly after our arrival, it started raining. It was not the warm, drizzling rain of a summer night, it was the lashing rain which hurt your face and your fingers, and which mixed with your tears. Often I was unsure whether I heard the hollow rumblings of distant thunder or of shoots aimed at us._

 _In the end it rained for days and all our equipment got wet, and hence heavier. All men were tensed up and disagreeable. I could really understand their behaviour because I also felt disagreeable myself - because I felt lonely at that time. I know that its sounds strange. How could you feel lonely in between all those men, Thomas? – Honestly? I don't know. I just don't know._

 _The corporal and the other three privates I had to work with were alright, I think. It is hard to say because every man was in terrible need for a friend but at the same time terrible afraid to make friends because nobody could say what tomorrow would bring and who it would take away. This was why everybody eventually kept their feelings for themselves, hiding their heart and sensitivity under their protective cover "soldier" while blocking out that we all were just human beings._

 _However, everything changed when I met Raymond. Actually I had met his brother first, because Johnny was critically injured during combat, but I couldn't help him and later the same night he died._

 _-oo-_

Thomas paused and looked at Mrs Hughes, who covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide open.

'They both are dead now?' she asked horrified. Thomas sneered.

'Yes, they both are dead. And so are Little Jim, Martle, Edwards, Werths, Meyer, Ayrton, Carey, Graves and all the other fathers, brothers, and sons. All are dead lying as nameless bones in the dry earth of No Man's Land!' He felt his pulse quickening, his ears roaring. It was a shame. All those wasted lives had been thrown into the lottery of war, where surviving had nothing to do with skills, but with luck. And suddenly he thought of William, who had been there as well. _Poor, William. Poor, dead William._

-oo-

 _After one year in the evacuating zone, I was sent back to Aldershot - a month at the training hospital in order to improve. It was okay, I think, but at the same time it was so different compared with the trenches. Primarily, we had more time: more time for consideration, more time for asking questions, time for improvement, and time for sleeping._

 _Even though I was exhausted and far away from the trenches, I couldn't sleep because my thoughts always drifted to Raymond who was still at the front, but his letters kept me sane and soon we met again somewhere near Arras._

 _'_ _Thomas,' he said, his eyes lighting up the moment he saw me. As I was near him, he offered me a cup of terrible green beans. I laughed and accepted the cup, because it was Raymond's way of saying "Glad you're back." And I was._

 _The next day, however, everything changed. I didn't work in the evacuating zone anymore, but in the collecting zone, i. e. in the area occupied by the combat units: at the front line. Only then I understood why I was sent to additional training. – They needed to refill the lines. My stomach contracted terribly and my fingers got cold, but I had to go._

 _I packed my backpack and my medical bag with trembling hands, unable to take back some control. Fortunately I was alone in the tent at that moment since I needed quiet in order to gather my remaining strength. At the end of the day, nothing could have completely prepared me for what was ahead._

 _-oo-_

Thomas forced a laugh and shook his head.

'Do you know what came in handy at that moment?' he asked Mrs Hughes who negated his questions.

'Mr Carson's training. I mean as a footman, we are not allowed to show any emotions at all while working. We need to have a stoic expression all the time. No smile, no pain, no fear. You can see nothing on a face of a well-trained footman.' _But you can always see death on a soldier's face,_ he thought.

-oo-

 _Trench work – it is hard to describe because it is so different from everything else in the world. The atmosphere in the trenches was drawn by swiftly moving aeroplanes, lines of observation balloons and the rising smoke clouds formed by bursting shells. Every conversation was accompanied by deafening gunfire and every now and then I flinched involuntarily because my body wanted to hide, but my brain forced my body to stay. Raymond was always relaxed. I don't know how he did it, but he was completely relaxed. He said, 'Thomas, I'm an experienced soldier. If I flinched every time I hear gunfire, I couldn't do anything else, and hence, I wouldn't be a soldier anymore. Do you understand that?' I nodded, and wondered what war did to his age since Raymond didn't act like a boy of 18 years who should have had a future ahead of him. But future had become an alien concept and present was the only beauty left._

 _-oo-_

 _My latest aid post lay between a main and an accessory communication trench. Honestly, I don't remember much, but when I close my eyes all I can see is a mixture of brown, black and red. And I'm trapped in-between. At the same time it is so loud – a blur of screams of agony and commands. Everybody kept moving, everybody had a destination and you were standing in the middle of the controlled chaos trying to help and to survive. – But I failed._

 _-oo-_

'Oh, Thomas,' Mrs Hughes said while reaching for his hand, but he pulled his hand away, so fast as though her touch might burn him.

'Don't,' he hissed. 'You don't know anything about it; about the war.' He raised his head and she could see his jaw trembling. 'Or about me.'

-oo-

 _Do you know that we had to decide who was worth saving and who was destined for death? When you are out on the battle field, you must decide within seconds, just a quick glance, if you're able to patch the man up or not. If not, you just leave him there. And only if you're lucky, he's already passed out, unable to beg and cry. But if not then he is still awake, and his eyes and his begging will haunt you forever. And every night you're wondering if you could have saved him after all._

 _One day, we had to go out again –'to collect' as they said – but as we reached our men, grenades were thrown. Directly. Unexpectedly._

 _I just froze; unable to think and act. And then I felt a blow which sent me facedown into the ground. Another jerk followed and I slipped head over heels in an old crater._

 _'_ _Lay down and stay down,' a rough voice barked and I obeyed. I heard another man near me, but we both didn't move. Instead I pressed my face further into the mud and my hands over my ears. Blood was coming out of my nose, which I had hid while falling, slowly mixing with earth but I didn't move. I prayed._

 _I couldn't do anything else, because I didn't carry any weapons or ammunition. I was just lying there and praying while the world around me was exploding._

 _Suddenly, I was hit by something, which then lay heavily on my left leg. At first I thought it was a bomb or at least a piece of it, but as I opened my eyes and turned on my back I saw a man. And everything was suddenly silent._

 _The man way lying face down – just as I did a couple of seconds ago - but he didn't move. My hand trembled terribly as I reached for his pulse which was still prominent. However as I lifted my fingers, I could see that they were covered with blood and my training kicked in. I turned the man as fast and gently as I could around, and stopped dead in my tracks the moment I saw his face._

 _'_ _Martle? I asked, although I was sure that the man in front of me was him. I recognised his face, even though it was covered in blood and mud._

 _'_ _Barrow?' he moaned, 'Wha' 'appen?`_

 _'_ _You were hit, ol' man,' I said, 'But I'll patch you up. Just as your heel.' I tried to smile, but my lips were ice. 'Let me just look you over.'_

 _'_ _No, ' he tried to grab my hand, but failed._

 _'_ _Just let me,' I said while looking him over. Every part of his body seemed to be covered with blood and mud. I hoped intensively that this wasn't all his, but it was. His torso was ripped apart, a huge metal piece somewhere near his heart. I felt dizzy, but I had to continue. As I opened his jacket, however, I forgot to breathe. A part of his intestine – don't ask me which one exactly – oozed out accompanied by the rotten smell of death._

 _'_ _Please,' he whispered. And again he tried to grab my hand. This time I offered him my hand. He took it and guided it to his belt. My fingers touched cold metal._

 _'_ _No!' I screamed_

 _'_ _Please,' he coughed. 'Don't leave me like this.'_

 _'_ _No,' I said again, shaking my head vehemently, 'No, I'll go and get help.' I tried to stand up, but my knees buckled._

 _'_ _Take …e,' his index finger switched, and he groaned in pain; his teeth all red._

 _'_ _No, no, no,' I repeated. 'Let me get help. HELP! WE'RE DOWN HERE!" Still sitting on the ground, I screamed as loudly as I could. Time went by while I pressed my hands on the wound until we were greeted by another soldier._

 _'_ _What's going on here?' he asked grimly. Unfortunately I couldn't see his face because the sun was already going down and it's rays casted a shadow over his face._

 _'_ _We need help,' I said with relieve and my body started to relax and I lifted my hands which were bathed in blood. He wasn't my responsibility anymore._

 _I jumped when I heard a single gunshot._

 _-oo-_

Thomas paused, closed his eyes and began massaging his temples. 'I let him suffer – for nothing.' He stopped and looked in surprise at his shaking hands, before he spat as though every word was a dagger into his heart, 'And then I was rewarded with a promotion: Corporal Barrow - because I was experienced and trained, yes even brave and an example for camaraderie – all nonsense. I was just promoted because so many men died that night and I didn't.'

-oo-

 _This was also the night Raymond died. He was directly hit by a grenade and immediately dead – it's what they said. I don't know if it is true. I didn't have another chance to see him or at least his body, because he was spread all over the place. He was just gone. Just hours before, we'd laughed together, he promised me to come to Downton one day. I think that was his fault in the end. He planned his future, and war laughed at him._

 _He was just a damn fine young man, Mrs Hughes._

 _He really was._

 _-oo-_

Hot tears were streaming down his face as he spoke.

'It's just not fair,' he said, his voice high-pitched, 'He should have survived. I mean I was pushed by someone and get a promotion and he? He didn't even get a grave.' His voice broke; his last words merely a whisper in anguish. 'I miss him so much.'

'Sh, sh, now,' Mrs Hughes said. She didn't look at Thomas, but at the ceiling while trying to hold her own tears back. After she was sure that she had the strength to hold both of them together, she went over to him and sat on his bed with her arms wrapped around his trembling shoulders. This time he didn't pull away.

'Sh, sh, now,' she repeated, rocking him slightly.

'I couldn't do this anymore. I just couldn't,' his voice was muffled by her arms but his feverish despair was still perceptible. 'The next day, everything started anew. We were sitting in our trenches waiting to fight, to die. I was with Hoyer. We talked – I don't know about what; maybe cigarettes, maybe work, but suddenly he was dead as well. A shot in the head. In our trench. Dead. I needed to get out. I needed to get the blood off me and to get out.' He cried so much that Mrs Hughes was concerned whether his body, which already suffered from the fever, could still bear it.

'And I got out,' he whispered, clutching his left hand forcefully.

'Yes, you did,' Mrs Hughes reassured him, tightening her grip around his shoulder, 'And I'm glad that you are here now – nearly unscathed. You, Thomas Barrow, were lucky. Never forget that.'

He merely nodded; hiding the truth that he hold the lighter in his left hand deliberately above the trench wall in order to finally get home - wherever his home would be.


End file.
